“When do we leave?” 

John’s question cut across Owen’s preoccupation, causing his response to be sharper than intended.

“I’ll make plans to depart as soon as I can. I said nothing about you coming with me. There is no we.”

The hurt and dismay that crossed John’s face would have affected a more unfeeling man than Owen. He took a conciliatory step forward, but John had quickly recovered and stood his ground, his chin lifting in recognisable defiance. 

“Then I’d better start your packing,” he said. His dignified exit was slightly marred by closing the door with more than necessary force.

Owen let out a huff of breath. This will not do, he thought. He shouldn’t have taken out his annoyance at his brother on John. It’s not his fault. Also, Owen didn’t need domestic strife on top of Lewis’ infuriating demands. 

He folded the abandoned letter and tucked it into his clothing to scrutinise later. Then he proceeded about the more immediate business of placating John.

When he reached his bed chamber, John was kneeling on the floor beside the open clothes chest. A couple of Owen’s spare shirts were laid on the bed, next to Owen’s old army snapsack. 

John’s apparent compliance was contradicted by the oilcloth bag strategically placed alongside. 

Owen had bought this item to replace the inadequate cloth bundle which held John’s possessions after he rescued John from the miserable existence of a put-upon kitchen boy at a country inn. John had been thrilled by its similarity to Owen’s leather satchel that had carried important documents of office.

Owen had smiled at how John had puffed out his thin chest with pride the first time he had slung it over his shoulder in imitation of Owen. But now the bag, or rather the intent behind it, invoked a frown. 

“I misspoke downstairs and meant no harm.” 

John ignored this opening salvo and continued his task with unnerving concentration.

“It’s not that I don’t want you with me.”

“Then why are you leaving me behind? It’s not like we haven’t been to London before.”

Owen had taken up with John towards the end of his tenure as a messenger, so the lad had accompanied him on his few final assignments reporting to the capital. It was natural for John to assume that where Owen went, he would follow. But this is different, Owen thought.

He would be within his rights to admonish a household servant for questioning his judgment. John was far more than that and had always been so, at least in private. He might pull out the servant’s truckle bed at night from custom, but it was seldom occupied. Since their arrival the April before last, John had spent every night in Owen’s arms as though it was his rightful place. Owen wouldn’t have it any other way.

Unshed tears sparkled in John’s eyes. At any sign of distress from John, Owen felt like the worst kind of brute although he had never beaten him or even threatened to. God would strike off my hand if that ever crossed my mind.

He sat on the end of the bed. “If we were going anywhere but the royal court in London, then I would take you without hesitation.” 

“Aren’t I good enough to come with you?”

“It’s the other way around,” Owen replied without hesitation. “It’s not a decent place. Palace life doesn’t suit us ordinary folk.” Owen recalled the heedless customs of the court in exile abroad. He reckoned such indulgent behaviour would have increased a hundred-fold since the king’s return to England. 

John was unconvinced.

“You think I’d get into trouble.”

“I’m worried that you’ll be harmed.” John’s attention was caught by Owen’s emphatic statement. Before he could be interrupted, Owen expanded on his theme and concerns. “Some wine-sodden whoreson might lay his hands on you, heedless of your protests. Or you could fetch a thrashing for speaking out of turn.” 

John regarded him frankly.

“Leaving me at home might ease your mind, but it won’t stop me worrying about you. Especially if the royal court is as perilous as you say.”

“I can take care of myself.”

John came to sit beside Owen, tracing his fingers over the scar on his back that lay beneath his shirt, evidence of Owen’s experience in battle. 

“Evidence would suggest otherwise.”